


Trials and Tribulations

by CupcakeGirlA



Category: Olympics RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGirlA/pseuds/CupcakeGirlA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is a little confused heading into London. But it’s not about Ryan. It’s not! Ok. Maybe it’s about Ryan, at least a little bit. Ok. A lot. But it’s not strictly about Ryan. There’s other stuff too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trials and Tribulations

**Author's Note:**

> Not yet Betaed. Posted at 3:50 in the morning. I'll be editing and fixing things soon. You know... once I've gotten some sleep. If you do find anything feel free to point it out. Thanks.

Swimming is a weird sport. It’s half individual and half team. Your training partners are who boost you up after a bad set, and help you celebrate a really good one. They keep you going day after day. But they’re also in the same pool as you at meets, sometimes only a lane line away, competing against you for the same spot or two on the National team. The national team is similar. At home they’re the guys you see at all the big competitions, who you compete against in race after race before it suddenly becomes us versus them on an international level, with those same guys racing with you on the team relays, all of you wearing the stars and stripes on your caps. 

Sometimes you wonder if you’d feel differently about the whole thing if you’d ever been on a college team. Michigan was great, but you were never really ON the team. You trained with them, you did a few expedition races at their NCAA meets. But you never worked with them to accumulate points toward a championship title. You never spent 4 years in the same pool with the same guys working toward the same goal. Most swimmers don’t do what you did and go pro at 16. So you think your strange relationship with the other elite swimmers is pretty understandable. If you’re a little standoffish that’s to be expected. When you see those guys it’s always at meets where you have to be focused on swimming, and nothing else. 

You’ve been in the pool a long time. And you think you might be a little fucked in the head going into the London Olympics. 17 years of goal-sheets, and drills, and countless hours stuck in your own head staring at the black line on the bottom of the pool would drive anyone a little batty. You have a lot of weight resting on your shoulders. And it is your farewell appearance. Each swim has so much importance assigned to it. So it’s perfectly normal that you find yourself acting weirder than average, and noticing unusual things about your fellow swimmers, about Ryan. Like how unnaturally still Ryan becomes when he’s sleeping, and how much rooming with him has begun to feel like home. And if you’re suddenly unsure about everything you thought you knew about yourself, about what was important in your life, well that’s typical when you’re whole world is about to change right? You’ve never felt so conflicted in your entire life.

Because it’s not about Ryan. It’s not!

Ok. Maybe it’s about Ryan, at least a little bit. Ok. A lot. But it’s not strictly about Ryan. Ryan is awesome. He’s fun and funny, which are two distinctly separate character traits, and Ryan is both. He works hard and he plays hard. And in general you wish him the very best at everything he does. But why does his winning have to equal you losing? It’s easier sometimes to be friends with guys like Nathan, or Aaron, or Brendan. They’re guys you see on relays more often than not, who you don’t ever really swim against. With Ryan it’s different. He’s different. Changed even. 

They say there are two breeds of swimmers. Those who love to win and those that hate to lose. You have always fallen rather adamantly into the second group. You hate to be doubted and you despise losing. Ryan on the other hand has always belonged to a lesser known third group. They don’t care about winning or losing, they come for the joy of racing. Maybe you’ve been taking that for granted all these years. Because suddenly Ryan’s swimming world view has shifted from loving to race, right past loving to win, and over into hates to lose territory. Suddenly he’s serious. And suddenly he’s beating you. A lot. And you have no one to blame but yourself. 

Beijing, and all that you did there, didn’t end with the closing of the games. It was months before the madness of press and appearances was over. Everyone wanted a piece of you, and you reveled in the attention as much as you wanted to curl up and hide. By the time you finally got back to Baltimore you were physically exhausted and emotionally wrung out. You didn’t have any inspiration to get up in the morning to go to the pool. No drive to put in an effort, to put in the time. You can own that. Own the meltdown you had. The pot fiasco. The trips to Vegas. The short turbulent relationships that never went anywhere. There were whole weeks where you didn’t go near the water and at the time you didn’t regret any of it. Didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. You had worked hard to succeed and you had deserved a break. 

But perhaps you had let your break go on a little too long. Because while you were sleeping late, and gambling, and drinking, and fucking, Ryan was training. Ryan was becoming virtually unstoppable. 

Bob has always been infuriatingly right. He knows you. He’s been your coach since you were still in Elementary school. He knows what you need. He knows how your mind works. He knows what it means when you drag your legs, or breathe too often during a sprint set. He knows your body, better than his own, and he’s not afraid to be brutally honest with you. Has been nothing but since you were 15 and he sent you off to your first Olympics on the other side of the world. When it was confirmed that you were genuinely, undoubtedly, world class swimming material he’d taken off the kid gloves and gotten even more demanding, which honestly your naïve little 15 year old brain hadn’t thought was possible. He expects so much from you. Maybe more than you expect from yourself. There’s something reassuring in his faith in you, his belief in your abilities. It’s also half the reason you fight with him so damn much. It’s hard to be around someone for such long periods of your day, every day, who sees right through your bullshit and calls you on it. Repeatedly. Loudly. And in front of anyone and everyone.

He’s not afraid to yell at you. To call you lazy or stubborn. To walk away from you when you’re acting like a spoilt child. You think part of you has yet to grow up. Your mom still babies you, Bob still rules, or at least tries to rule, over every move you make. It’s hard to be a fully functioning grown up when you’ve never really lived like one. Your life since you were 11 years old has revolved around swimming. As London draws closer and with it the end of your swimming career, you think that’s one of the things you look forward to the most. Being finally fully independent. After the last few years of continuous fucking up, and repeatedly disappointing everyone, including yourself, you decide that this time, you’ll try and do it right. Bob tries hard not to tell you “I told you so,” even though he has every right in the world to say it a hundred times. 

So you promise yourself that you’ll listen to Bob. You’ll do as he tells you and try not to fight with him. For now you have a focus, a mission. You are going to London, you are going to win a bunch of gold medals (but not eight, definitely not going to try for eight again), and prove yourself and all of Team USA to be the best fucking swimmers in the world, while enjoying every possible moment of your last year competing. No matter what it takes. 

You plan to do all of this while trying not to let Ryan’s successes or failures bother you. Yes, he’s your friend, and you want him to do well but he’s also your competitor and right now he’s the one you have to beat. He’s the one everyone seems to be rooting for. You’re more than aware of how the media is treating your rivalry. But even that, you put out of your mind. Treating Ryan like the enemy is never going to work, except when you’re on the blocks beside him. 

By the time trials is over you’ve qualified to race eight races in London, the same eight races you’d raced in Athens, and won gold in at the Beijing games. Five individual races and three relays. Bob talks you out of the 200 Free. Leaving you with a seven event program for London. With that settled you’re free to leave and you finally get to go home to glorious Baltimore. Baltimore in the middle of a heat-wave. The temperature is insane, 105 with a heat index of 112. It’s not so strange then that you are suddenly longing to be anywhere else. Colorado was killer at altitude, but at least you didn’t feel like you were being roasted alive. There is so much to get done before you head to the official Swim Team Training Camp; interviews and laundry, family stuff and mental prep. But also training. It’s different training than usual, but training nonetheless. 

You walk out of Baltimore/Washington International and it feels like it’s too hot to breathe. Picking up Herman and Stella from the boarders, you head home to your condo overlooking the Baltimore Harbor, only to find that your AC is broken. Great. 

You unpack three weeks’ worth of dirty clothes and put down extra water for the dogs, all while on hold with maintenance. 20 minutes of frustration later and all you have to show for it is an estimated time of arrival for the AC repair man. The sun setting finds you spread out shirtless and barefoot on the hardwood floor of your entry way contemplating going out to Meadowbrook on the one day Bob’s given you off before training starts up again just to submerge yourself in cool chlorinated water for a little while. You’re contemplating the theory that you might actually be some sort of alien aquatic mammal hybrid, and you’d just never realized it before, when your cellphone rings. 

“Yeah?” you ask, without looking at the caller id. 

“Did you fucking see? Tell me you saw!” Ryan. Excited, loud, elated, Ryan. You release a slow automatic smile in response, your body almost melting into the cool floor.

“Saw what?” you ask, feeling lethargic. Your eyes are half-lidded and focused on the high ceilings above you. Your next priority, you think, is going to be a nice long nap. 

“Shit man. Don’t you pay attention? The car! What do you think?” he asks. You fight not to roll your eyes. 

“I just got home, Ry. I had to pick up the dogs, and unpack. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you reply. 

“Oh,” laughter. “Dude, Nissan! I get home and there’s a fucking 370Z sitting in my driveway!” You sit up. A 370Z? That’s a nice car. It’s not a Benz, but really… few cars can compare. 

“Shit. Really? What color?” you ask falling back against the cool floor, shifting a little to the side to get out of the sweat spot you’d left behind a moment before. The floors going to need another wax because of this, you just know it. Herman pads closer, and flops down on his side next to your face, looking at you upside down. You smile at him, listening to Ryan ramble about his new toy. This type of phone call is common between you. Normal. You reach out and scratch Herman under the chin. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he gives you a puppy grin. Stella is less affectionate, but still happy to have you home. She flops down on your other side, stretching her long body and longer legs out to touch as much of the floor as possible and whining softly in pleasure. You’re distracted by panting puppy breath, and the sweat gathering on the small of your back again as Ryan’s voice fades to a pleasant background hum. But then something he says catches your attention like a smack to the back of the head. 

“… come down here man? I wanna hang out with you. We never just hang anymore. Take a break after the games, and come down here for a few weeks. We can lay on the beach, bum around the house, play tourist at Universal or Disney. What do you think?” What? He knows just as well as you do why you don’t go down there more often. What is he playing at? You don’t answer right away, there’s this weight suddenly sitting on your stomach. It’s uncomfortable and you lift your head to see if one of the dogs has flopped down on top of you. But they’re both stretched out on the cool floor on either side of you. Ryan starts talking again. “I mean I know you’ll be busy with a lot of shit right after. Press and interviews, your farewell tour or whatever-the-fuck Peter’s calling it, but shit man, you deserve a damn break. We both do. So you’ll come?” he asks. You blink at the slant of fading sunlight cutting across the ceiling over your head. You don’t have an excuse to say no. So you agree.

“Yeah, man. Of course I’ll come, Doggy. I’m just not sure what my calendar will be like for a while.” Ryan seems content with that answer. 

“How’s my main man Herman? And princess Stella? You should bring the dogs. Carter could use some fellow canine company to play with. He needs some exercise. Dude is getting fat. I bet he’d get along real well with Stella if you know what I mean. She’s a fine female specimen.” You groan, your earlier confusion fading instantly away. 

“You keep Carter and his dog boners away from my Stella, I swear to God Ry!” you object, and his laughter filters back through the line from five states away; warm and so ALIVE. 

“Yeah. Yeah. It’s too bad she came spayed. We could totally have been like co-grandpap’s to their little mix breed puppy babies. Those would have been some funny looking dogs, let me tell you!” he laughs again. 

“I wouldn’t let Carter anywhere near her if that was the case!” you reply, shaking your head. Ryan groans over the line. And you hear the squeak of his leather couch against bare skin. 

“Don’t act like she wouldn’t be hot for Carter. He’s basically me in dog form. No one can resist us Lochte men.” 

“Sure,” you reply, rolling your eyes. 

“It’s true. You’ll see.” And with that slightly ominous sounding warning, he tells you “Later,” and hangs up. Your forehead furrows with confusion. What the heck had he meant by that? You stare at your phone for a few minutes before setting it down on the floor beside you. Why, you think to yourself, does he have to bring up all this shit again? Hadn’t you both learned your lesson the last time? You turn to look at Herman. He’s panting, chest rising and falling in a fast rate, drool forming a puddle beside his head. You sigh, and this time when you sit up, you have to unstick your sweaty back from the floor. It hurts like ripping off a giant back-sized Band-Aid. “Come on, we’re going to Grandma’s,” you say, climbing to your feet. The dogs both get up following closely behind you as you head back to your bedroom to pack a bag. Maybe you can convince your mom to order in from that Chinese place down the street from her house. It’s too far away to order from you condo in Fells Point. You push all thoughts of Florida and Ryan away. He’s a friend, and he’s your competition, and you aren’t going to waste any more thoughts on him. 

Yeah right. 

You have five days of light drills and half sessions at Meadowbrook. Then you’re off to Tennessee for the USA Swimming Olympic Training Camp. You’ve never been sure why they call it a “training camp.” It’s more of a two-week-long USA Swimming/US Olympic sponsored vacation, with a group relocation to France part way through. You’ll mostly work on your tan, hang out with the rest of the team, and occasionally jump in the pool to work on relay starts. Everyone swims but no one goes all out. You’re all either on taper, restarting taper, or about to start taper, depending on personal preference and the day that marks the start of your swimming events in London. 

Time away from the pool is spent hopping from one hotel room to another, watching television, playing video games and generally hanging out. There is other stuff too. Mandatory meetings about proper podium and on deck behavior, about the press and how to handle questions you don’t want to answer. Some of the team is new, younger swimmers with little if any international experience. They will learn a lot, but you and the more experienced swimmers, you’ve been through all of this before. You know how to behave during the medal ceremony, divert a difficult or insulting question without looking like an ass, and to politely decline to sign an autograph without stepping on toes. Even if some people, Ryan included, prefer to ignore their often sound advice. And there will of course be media day, full of autograph signings, interviews, and cameras shoved in all your faces. 

And Ryan will be your roommate, because Ryan is always your roommate. When people first hear about that, that you and Ryan room together the majority of the time at these bigger meets and especially at the Olympics people are confused. “How in the hell did that work?” they usually ask. “How can you be such good friends with your biggest rival?” You have asked yourself that a million times over the last eight years. You and Ryan had clicked into this weird friendship at Olympic Trials back in ’04. You’d shared an interest in gansta rap, hip-hop, football, and more recently golf and poker. You’d meshed well and got along great. And that had never changed. Not when you were beating him nine times out of ten. And not even now when the Press and the entire world, inside and outside the sport of swimming, have decided that it is now Ryan’s turn to shine. You still like the guy. Even before trials you have continued talking to him at least once every few days, and you still text him at least twice a day. You still hang out with him, if only briefly, during breaks in the season, and room with him at competitions. 

You are friends. And that works for one reason and one reason only, you don’t talk about the pool. What happens on the pool deck, stays on the pool deck. You don’t argue about split times, or who had the better start and/or finish. Ryan doesn’t tease you about his having a better dolphin kick, or about you sucking so much at the breaststroke. You don’t harass Ryan about his eating habits, or missing practices, or need to be more serious. Ryan and you don’t talk about swimming. You talk about anything and everything else, because the one area of your lives that you don’t talk about just happens to be the one area of your lives that could cause issues like jealousy or resentment, so your friendship had never suffered for it. 

Ryan is one of your biggest motivators. And not like Thorpe or Crocker or Cavic had once been motivators. Ryan pushes you every day. As much as you want Ryan to win, you don’t want to lose to him, and that has pushed you that much further for years. That much harder. 

Ryan is your friend. But he is also competition. As long as you compartmentalize the two you get along fine. 

The problem with Ryan is that he is just so… Ryan. There was an easy-goingness about Ryan that is hard to ignore. It sucks you in and makes you want to kick-back, relax, sun yourself on a beach, or spend all day in your underwear on the couch playing video games. Ryan is great for hanging out with when he is in the mood to hang out. And he is even better to train with when he is in the pool. Because when Ryan is focused he is completely focused. He trains with an intensity that is at times a little bit scary. But as soon as he is done for the day, he is back to easy-going laid back Ryan. The pool doesn’t haunt him, rule over him, like it does you. Training with Ryan only works because you don’t indulge in trash talk. Again, it’s all about boundaries. 

It is hot in Tennessee; the heat wave on the East coast, extending back westward toward the middle of the states. You accidentally leave your sunscreen in your room and claim taper as a reason not to walk all the way back upstairs to get it. By lunch you’re turning red, and achy. Bob is not amused. 

He sends you to your room like you’re 12 years old again, and has the very accommodating hotel staff send up a bottle of aloe. It doesn’t help. You’re lying face down on your bed, with your head hanging over the edge trying not to moan in agony when Ryan appears after evening practice. He takes one look at you and starts to laugh. 

“See! This is why you need to come down to the G-spot like way more often! You’re just too white!” he teases, slamming the door and dumping his gear in its customary spot by the bathroom doorway. You groan and give him the finger, trying not to stretch or jar your back too much. He shakes his head at you, and squats down to pull a plastic shopping bag out of his gym bag. You turn away, closing your eyes. They fly open again when the bed dips to your right. 

“Ryan, what are you doing?” you ask, rotating your head to look at him again. He bounces and you wince, as you watch him dump out the contents of the bag between you, tossing the flimsy plastic to the floor at his feet. 

“Dr. Lochte has come to treat his patient,” Ryan says holding up a box of instant oatmeal. You make a face.

“Kinky,” you say and he starts to laugh. He wags his eyebrows at you and then bounces back to his feet. You let your head hang again, ignoring his progress across the room and into the bathroom, tripping over his dropped gym bag midway there. You shake your head, rolling your eyes as he laughs his way around the corner. 

He’s back a few minutes later with a clean glass from the bathroom counter, partially filled with water. You slide around on the bed so you’re lying across the foot, your head pillowed on your crossed arms. You watch him sit down on the side of the bed, resting the glass between his thighs, legs gripping it tightly as he rips open two packets of oatmeal with one hand and his teeth. He pours the oatmeal into the glass, mixing it together with the fingers of his free hand, empty oatmeal wrappers tossed to the nightstand. He glances at you, his face serious with concentration. But he grins when he sees the confused furrow between your eyes. 

“What? I grew up in Florida, and I might be part Cuban but I am not un-sunburnable. This will help,” he says. You squint at his use of what you’re pretty sure is a made up word and he laughs again. “Trust me, jeah?” he asks. You nod, closing your eyes and turning your head away. 

The first touch of wet fingers makes you jump and squirm. He soothes the gooey oatmeal across your shoulders, and upper back. He’s careful, gentle, as he pats it onto your sore skin, hissing in sympathy when he reaches a particularly tender patch. A line of oatmeally water slides down the center of your back and you can’t work up enough effort to care that it’s sliding down under your gym shorts. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter and breathe in deep through your nose, the smell of cinnamon apple fills your senses and you breathe out a surprised laugh. 

“Does it have to be cinnamon apple oatmeal or will any flavor do?” you ask, and he smacks you in the thigh with his dry hand. 

“It’s all they had at the Stop & Shop around the corner. Be grateful they had any at all. Your second options would have been vinegar or crushed Aspirin paste. Shit, at least this way we can eat the leftovers for breakfast once you’re all healed up,” he says. Typical Ryan, always thinking about his stomach. You sigh in relief as the oatmeal starts to zap some of the heat out of your burning skin. You groan a little and he lets out another laugh, but it sounds different, more... breathy? You don’t give it much further thought because his fingers are suddenly back, pressing cool flagrant oatmeal across the nape of your neck and upward to the base of your skull where your hair line starts. You’re hard in an instant, dick filling where it’s pressed into the mattress under you. You blink in surprise your mouth dropping open in pleasure. His hands don’t stop moving and you squeeze your eyes shut, closing your mouth with an audible click to bite back a moan. His fingers smooth more oatmeal across the tops of your shoulders and down the front of them as far as they can reach with you lying face down on the bed. You imagine his hands linger a minute longer than they need too, before they pull away. 

“There, you big pussy. You’ll feel a lot better in an hour or so,” he says, before he stands up and walks away. You press your forehead into the sharp point of your right wrist, breathing in short shallow breaths. 

What the fuck was that?! The thought echoes through your head and you have no answer. This is Ryan, you remind yourself, groaning into the fold of your arms, willing your erection to go away. He’s as affectionate and touchy as you are. That’s all. You have a fleeting memory of a phone call from Ryan while you and the dogs communed with the wonderfully cool hardwood floors of your condo in Baltimore. Had Ryan been flirting that day? Had Ryan just touched you with some kind of intent, or have you finally fallen off the deep-end and gone certifiably insane? The two of you had settled this thing between you years ago. Why was it suddenly, now of all times, popping back up between you? You groan at the bad mental pun, and smush your face into the scratchy hotel comforter. 

Ryan comes waltzing out of the bathroom a minute later, dancing with an invisible partner and rapping along to a song in his head and you’re too busy laughing your ass off to continue analyzing your inner thoughts any further. 

 

It should have been easier to figure out what Ryan was up too. But the other man had become adept at getting you to do precisely what he wants you to do, without you realizing it. Something you discovered much too late.

Looking back it is easy to see how he played you. Well “played” may be too strong a word, but so is “manipulate.” Eventually you settle on “steered.” He steered you in a certain direction. It started with the sunburn incident. After that he stayed away and you realized that you missed him. You found yourself watching him during breaks in training. His focus was usually split between Cullen and Dwyer. Not to say he was in any way antisocial. He has always been the most social person you know.

But he didn't engage you like he usually does at meets or training camps. You weren't excluded or anything. There was movie night and game night and team dinners. But he wasn't continuously knocking on your door either. And you noticed. At the time you figured he was distancing from you because of the pressure from the games. That pushing you to a safe distance would make it harder to deal with the press attention, the rivalry they were pressing on you both, and the stress of competition preparation.

You were relieved when he chose, of all the available spots on the plane, to sit with you on the way to Switzerland and then onto France. You talked, joked, laughed and slept on your way across the Atlantic. And you did it all with Ryan right across the aisle. He’s always been good at getting under your skin when he wants too. 

In London you find yourself in a three bedroom suite. You’re assigned to the tiniest bedroom by yourself, with Cullen and Ryan sharing one room, and Nathan sharing the other with Matt Grevers. You all agree to let the two giants of the group take the slightly bigger room, though by bigger you really mean roughly two square feet bigger than the room you collectively put Cullen and Ryan. You’re fairly sure your room was originally meant to be a closet, but you’re strangely ok with that. You have a door between you and everyone else so you’re happy. And yeah, you’re sharing a suite with Ryan, again. You’re not sure how it always happens. Maybe the coaches figure it will be a great way to keep the rivalry high. 

After the flight Ryan starts talking to you more regularly again. Spades and/or UNO tournaments become a near nightly occurrence. Your suite becomes the defacto hangout for most of the team. For that, you blame Ryan. You’re so wrapped up in your own head that you’re even less social than usual. The closer you get to the start of the games, the more intense you get which is fairly typical. 

The first races are on Day 1 of the competition. And something feels off. You aren’t racing like you should be. By the end of the evening session that night you’re so angry with yourself you can barely see straight. 4th. No medal. For the first time in 12 years, no medal. You want to kick something, scream yourself hoarse. 

You go back to the dorms, and you lock yourself in your room. You can’t look at Ryan, who won gold. You don’t need to check your phone to know what everyone in the world is saying. You know. That you’ve officially been dethroned. That Ryan is now the best swimmer in not only America but the world. That you really should have just retired. That it was your own fault. And you can’t even argue with them. Not really. 

There’s little time to sulk. On Sunday is the 4x100 free relay. It’s hard to keep your distance from Ryan even though part of you wants too. You’re not mad at him for winning. You’re just disappointed in yourself, and seeing him there, all day long, still riding the high of success and a gold medal, it’s hard to take. But you feel him watching you during morning practice, eyes focused on the middle of your back. You just keep trying to react like everything is normal. Besides you have a final to race. Team USA is going to win. 

But you don’t win. You lose. You watch as Ryan, Ryan who rarely swims the 100 free, and is never the anchor, finishes in second. And yeah, you all won a silver medal. But Silver sometimes feels more like losing than anything else. This time you don’t avoid Ryan. Because you saw the look on his face. You saw the guilt, the self-reproach. Because if you know anything about how the world works than you know how America is going to respond, how they’ll turn on him, like he lost the race all by himself. A couple million people who only watch swimming once every four years, thinking they know how relays work, like they got it all figured out. You know better. Ryan hadn’t lost the race. The team had lost the race. And you stand up for him, each and every time you’re asked about it and sometimes even when you’re not. 

Later, back in the dorms, he knocks on your door, asking to come in. You’re sitting against your headboard, ears covered and music going, staring at your goal sheet on your phone. You pull down your headphones from your ears and set them aside to give him your full attention. He sits on the end of your bed. 

“I just…” he trails off, one hand going up to grip the back of his neck. “I’m sorry man,” he says softly, looking at you sort of like a kicked puppy. You roll your eyes. 

“Dude, you didn’t do anything wrong. You swam the race, but so did the rest of us. Silver is pretty fucking awesome all things considered. I’m not complaining,” you pick up your phone again, thumb flicking across the screen in a pantomime of interest. 

“I’m still sorry. And not just about the relay,” he crosses his arms over his chest. “About the 4IM too.” You freeze, rolling your eyes up to look at him. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You’re sorry you swam a better race than me? You’re sorry I was an idiot and didn’t train hard enough and long enough to actually medal? If none of those things, than what? You’re sorry you didn’t drop the race to give me a better shot? Because I have 17 Olympic medals to my name, Ry. I don’t need a fucking pity medal. If you ever even think about pulling out of a race just to stroke my ego I’ll kick your ass so hard you won’t sit down for a fucking week!” you argue. That gets a smile out of him. 

“I wanted it to be both of us on the podium,” he confesses. You smirk. 

“Yeah? Well, you did your part. I was the one who fucked up on that one,” you explain. He laughs. “What’s up next for you?” you ask, as if you don’t already know. Somehow you always know Ryan’s schedule almost as well as you know your own. 

“200 Free final tomorrow. You?” 

“200 Fly tomorrow and the next day.” 

“I’ll see you for the relay tomorrow, jeah?” he asks. You nod. 

“Of course!” He turns away but lingers, not moving toward the door. You hesitate to look away, knowing he isn’t done talking yet. He swings around to look at you again, and his face looks odd. You can’t pin down his expression, not really. 

“Look man, good luck tomorrow, ok?” he offers. You give him a slow smile. 

“You too. You’re going to kick ass Ryan. But I am going to beat you in the 2IM. Word of warning,” you explain. His eyes crinkle up with mirth. 

“Dream on, Phelps! This is my time,” he bounces off your bed, and leaves without a goodbye. 

You watch the 200 Free final from the ready room, where you’re waiting for the 200 Fly Semis to start. You watch as Ryan gets the exact same placement you did during the 400IM, 4th. You grimace and look away, hands clenching at your sides. Nothing about this Olympic Games has gone the way you wanted it too. And there doesn’t seem to be anything you can do to fix it. Even knowing this, it’s still a surprise when you climb out of the pool after the 200 fly. You’re a little shell-shocked. You were sure you had this one. You’d felt it in your bones. 

Your stroke had felt right, you’d timed your breaths, hit your walls. You’d maybe fucked up the finish, but not that badly. It had felt like a win. But you hadn’t won. There’s some kid who has come out of nowhere, from South Africa, of all places, standing above you and to the left. He keeps telling you how great you are. How you’re his hero. How he only swims the Fly because you do. And when you step up on the top platform of the podium for photos, you have to remind him to hold up his medal for the picture. He’s THAT green. It’s while you’re warming down in the diving well that you start to think that maybe the press was right. Maybe you should have just called it a career after Beijing. Maybe you are too old, and too tired, and too slow to still win. There’s no other explanation. You’re three finals into your last Olympics and you have two silvers and a four place finish to show for it. Suddenly you feel incredibly incredibly old. You want to go back to your dorm and just sleep. Maybe things will be better tomorrow. 

But the night isn’t even over yet. You still have the 4x200 Relay to race. You’re not optimistic. Something must show in your face when you sit down in the ready room because the other guys are all eyeing you like you’ve already admitted defeat. You don’t feel like yourself. You don’t know what to do to fix this before Ricky and Conor start to follow you down into the land of head-case induced panic attacks. That’s when Ryan plops down next to you. He looks tired, but determined. He nudges you with one pointy elbow into your side, and you pull your headphones off to look at him. 

“You ready to kick ass? Because I am. I’m tired of this second place, fourth place, bullshit. Let’s win some Gold… show em that the US is the best, jeah?” he says quietly. You stare at him and feel your shoulders lift, some invisible bone bending weight lifting off and evaporating away in an instant. You smile at him and the grin you get back has you ready to take on the whole world. 

“Under 7?” you prompt. Ricky’s smile grows huge too. 

“Hell yeah!” he says jumping up and the next thing you know the 4 of you are in a huddle, arms around each other, and heads bent together.

“Let’s do this!” 

You hit the wall first, and win your record breaking 19th medal. It’s Gold, and you get to share it with Ryan and Ricky, Conor, Charlie, Matt, and Davis. You couldn’t have picked a better way to hit number 19. 

You know that your happiness with your performance should not be solely dependent on the medals you bring home, but you hate to lose and love to win. Gold equates to winning in a way that Silver just... doesn’t. Suddenly you feel more like your old self. Your confidence seems to skyrocket overnight. 

If you have a bigger smile on your face the next morning than you have since you’d arrived at training camp, well that’s to be expected. You did win another Gold medal and break a record in the process. Things feel like they’re finally back on track. 

But then things don’t go well for Ryan later that night. He gets Bronze in the 200 back. Even Clary does better than him. And you know, KNOW, how much that must sting. Ryan looks pissed afterwards, even as he rushes to warm down, get his medal, and then get to the ready room for the 200IM. 

For the first time in as long as you can remember you’re tempted to go to him. To break your bubble of solitude and talk to Ryan first. It’s always the other way around. He comes and sits by you. He pokes and prods and annoys you until you pull out your earbuds or yank off your headphones and turn to him, giving him all of your attention. He’s the only one. The only one you’ll talk to or interact with before a race. But today he’s sitting far away from you, on the opposite side of the ready room. He’s got his own headphones on, legs jiggling to stay warmed up. He looks focused, determined, like everything will be determined with the results of this race. You know that feeling. And you know it isn’t healthy. It will fuck things up for Ryan. Screw his head up for much longer than just tonight or even the rest of the games. That’s the kind of self-doubt that just keeps on giving. 

You stare at him, eyes intense, trying to get Ryan to look up. Ryan must feel the attention, because he glances up, looking startled and meets your gaze head on. You smile at him, big and bright. Ryan’s lips twitch, and your smile turns intentionally cocky. Ryan lets out a laugh, his nose wrinkling with surprised happiness. 

You break his gaze, eyes traveling around the assembled competition in the ready room. You smirk, looking back at Ryan. 

‘We got this’ you mouth. Ryan licks his lips, looking around quickly before looking back at you again. He nods, puckering his lips. ‘1 and 2,’ you mouth, pointing at yourself and then at Ryan. This time it’s Ryan who smirks. He shakes his head. 

‘1 and 2,’ he mouths correcting you by pointing first at himself and then at you. You roll your eyes, shaking your head and putting your head back. You slide your eyes closed, letting the beat of the music drum through your skull. You wait a minute, then peek through your lashes at Ryan. He’s leaning back in his chair, one leg propped up on the opposite knee, his head tilted against the cinderblock wall. He bobs his head to the beat pouring through his headphones but there’s a smile on his face, and you relax. You know that smile. That’s a confident smile. And you feel a surge of pride knowing you put it there, that you managed to pull Ryan out of his funk. 

If you’re going to beat Ryan in the last final you will ever race against him in professionally you want it to be a fair fight. And that means you want Ryan swimming at his best. At least that’s what you tell yourself. Logically it’s not very smart. Why not to go into that last race knowing Ryan is all wrong in the head? Well… more so than usual? But you can’t do that. You respect Ryan too much. You like Ryan too much. 

Knowing he’s at the top of his game, and trying his hardest, makes beating him that much more gratifying. And Ryan’s honest enthusiasm and happiness at the final outcome makes your heart pound in your ears so loudly it’s distracting. 

Standing on the podium, and having Ryan there with you, you know you could walk away right then, just leave the pool and leave London, and know you’ve finished on a high note. That you’re still one of the best. That the last four years of ups and downs were not a mistake. You’re not sure how much of that has to do with Ryan, and how much of it has to do with you. 

Friday is Ryan’s Birthday. With two more days of competition left the team keeps things low key with a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday to You” at breakfast in the athlete dining hall, and a smuggled in cupcake. The real party will be had Saturday and Sunday once they’re all free to indulge. You appreciate the restraint. You don’t know how well you’d deal if everyone was hanging out in the suite being loud all afternoon and evening. You know it’s not just for your benefit that they refrain. Cullen has his 50 free final that night and both Matt and Nathan are set to race in the Medley relay with you the next night. So yeah, of the five of you in the suite, Ryan is the only one done racing. He spends most of the day hanging out with his family and friends who had come to London to cheer him on. You’re not sure he’ll come to the evening session but he’s sitting in the athlete’s section of the stands when you come out for the 100 Fly final. 

Normally you spend the last few minutes locked in your own head. Nothing but a familiar beat raging through your brain, as you walk out, following your prerace routine exactly. But this time you look up as you’re exiting the ready room, walking across the pool deck. You spot Ryan right away. He’s on his feet with most of the other athlete’s, and you shouldn’t be able to pick him out of the crowd, but somehow you do. And it makes you smile, knowing he’s there, that he’s on his feet for you. 

The 100 Fly isn’t as special to you as the 200. The 2 has always been your better race, no matter how you have always longed to be a sprinter. But this time the 100 Fly is the medal you want the most. You’ve lost the 200, come in second. You’ve lost the 4IM, come in fourth. You’d won the 2IM, but this, the fly, is your stroke. Your specialty. And you don’t want the last individual race of your career to end in anything but gold.

You dive in the water, and it’s like everything is perfect. You have a steady stroke, your body feels right, high in the water. You feel slick, fast, like a seal cutting your way down the pool lane. And you know this race is yours, yours, all yours! And it is. You win. You win Gold. And you come out of the water smiling. 

After your race you watch from the ready room as Cullen wins his silver in the 50 free. There will definitely be some pre-end of competition partying happening in the suite tonight, and you don’t even mind. 

After the races, and press conferences, and interviews are over, you head back to the dorm. Cullen and Ryan are camped out in the communal living area, contraband pizza and beer at the ready. 

You snag a bottle and a slice, limiting yourself to just one of each, as you flop down on the end of the couch next to Ryan. 

“Look at you, Mr. Olympic,” Ryan teases, and you grin at him around pepperoni and gooey runny cheese. He laughs, pounding you once on the back and turning back to Cullen. “Glad to be done?” he asks, taking a long pull of his beer. 

“Yes!” Cullen replies, smiling widely and showing two neat rows of even white teeth. “But I am beat, I’ll see ya in the morning?” he asks, standing up. Ryan looks at him in confusion. 

“Come on, man! You’re done! And it’s my birthday!” he objects. Cullen shakes his head. 

“I’m exhausted, and we’re gonna be celebrating your birthday for like the next two weeks. I’ll see you in the morning!” he backs out of the room, eyes going from Ryan to you and back again. You frown at him, confused, before shrugging and focusing your eyes on the television. It’s tuned to a local station, one of the BBC’s dedicated Olympic channels, and your eyes are unfocused as you watch highlights from earlier in the day flash across the screen. The volume is turned down so low you can’t make out the words being spoken, but there are lots of Union Jacks being waved, and medals being handed out. You practically feel Ryan deflate beside you, slumping low on his end of the couch. 

“Why does no one want to hang out with me during my birthday?” Ryan asks. “Do I have like a BO problem or something? You’d tell me right? We’re tight enough you’d tell me if I had like offensive levels of rank going on?” he asks. You laugh, finishing the last of your slice, and taking a quick swallow of already flat beer. 

“Of course, Doggy. I would never let you run around smelling bad. It would clash with your whole GQ style,” you reply licking grease off your fingers. Ryan is curiously silent beside you, and when you glance over, he’s staring super intently at the television, looking far too serious. 

“You’re going out with us tomorrow night right?” he asks, without turning to look at you, and you frown. He looks worried, earnest almost. Like your answer is very important. 

“Definitely, man. I wouldn’t miss it,” you reply. He nods. 

“Good, cause I want to talk to you about something, once you’re done.” You study the side of his face for a moment, a heavy weight settling in your stomach. 

“Not about something bad though, right?” you ask. He laughs, and you feel the tension in your limbs suddenly release at the sound. 

“Nah, man! Definitely not something bad. Don’t worry about it. You got more important stuff to be stressing out about. Like finishing off Team USA with another gold,” he stands up as he finishes the sentence, stretching his arms over his head, and arching backward. It’s a familiar sight, but as always you force your eyes to dart away from him. “Goodnight man. Get some sleep.” He socks you in the shoulder and heads off the way Cullen had gone a few minutes before. You finish the last swallow of your beer, scrubbing a hand through your short cropped hair, and letting your eyes stare unfocused at the TV. 

Your mind turns in circles, thoughts whirling around like a twister in your head. 

The problem with Ryan, beyond his being your teammate, and competition, and rival, and all the things that everyone else had made him into for you, was that he has always been more than just those things. He’s your friend, and your occasional roommate. He’s fun to be around, and great to talk too. He’s smarter than anyone who doesn’t really know him, gives him credit for. He’s loyal, and kind, and a little bit crazy. But he’s also beautiful. He’s drop dead beautiful, and sexy, and completely not someone you are allowed to think about in that way. Because even when he’s being goofy Ryan Lochte, with the freckled skin, and the full kissable lips, he’s still teammate, and competition, and rival. 

You put up certain walls that first year, when you were both young and stupid, and naïve. Mostly because Bob caught on, and gave you a lecture to beat all lectures. Ryan was not to become a fuck-buddy. Ryan was not dateable. They could be friends, but not too close. They could hang out but not too often. And nothing they were to each other could be allowed to affect how he acted and reacted from the moment he stepped on the starting block until the moment he stepped onto the podium. Caring about Ryan would be dangerous, idiotic, insane. And so you did what you were told. You ended it before it even began, made some joke about being buddies, and stopped letting Ryan hang all over you like he liked too. 

You try not to let what ifs rule your life. You make decisions, and good or bad, the ramifications are what they are. You can’t go back in time and change things. So why dwell on could-have-beens? This should be no different, Ryan should be no different than smoking pot at that stupid party, or getting in the car after having a couple of beers. No different than putting off training, or skipping practice. But as you sit there, in the dark of your London Olympic Village dorm room, with Ryan one wall away, and your last ever Olympic race almost around the corner, you feel regret. 

Ryan is amazing, and part of you, a bigger part than you would ever willingly admit, even to yourself, wishes things had been different between you. 

Retirement is less than 24 hours away, and as you blink hazily up at the white washed ceiling you frown, suddenly tired of all of it. You want this to be over. All of it. The competing, and the stress. Every last bit of it. 

Just one more race and it will be. 

You pull yourself up off the couch, reaching for the remote control, and shifting your tired eyes to the TV. And it’s you on the screen, your face filling the shot as you walked out to swim the 100 Fly. You watch yourself step out, eyes focused on the ground, arms swinging in preparation, and ears covered with your headphones. You watch your own head come up, eyes focusing on someone, something high above and to the right, and you see the smile come over your face, even the you on the screen looks quickly away, refocusing in a split second. You’d looked happy. Really happy. You flip off the TV, unwilling to give it anymore thought tonight. You have a race to win tomorrow. 

 

When you step out of the ready room, Brendan, Matt, and Nate stepping out beside you, you feel conflicted again. You’ve been telling yourself for months that you’re ready. That you’re tired. That it’s time. Retirement is the right choice. You’ve sworn up and down to family, friends, Bob, Schmitty, and every single interviewer during the last two years, that this is your last Olympics. Your last competition. Which makes this your last race. 

The buildup, the weight of all that expectation and anticipation makes you feel heavy, and exhausted. It’s been a long week. And you’re happy this is your last race. But it’s buoyed by the sadness of it all ending. You love swimming, even if you don’t love the dedication it requires, the commitment, but you can’t really be faulted for that. Your life has centered around the pool for over half of your life, you’re ready to try something new. 

So there’s sadness that it’s ending. Pride for all you’ve accomplished. Love for your friends, your coach, the real fans who never stopped supporting you, and for the sport itself. But there’s also joy. Overwhelming happiness that you’re here. You’ve done it, you’ve proved everyone wrong, and when your name is called, right alongside Brendan, Matt, and Nathan’s you can’t do anything but wave to the crowd, and try your damndest to keep the smile off your face. You have nothing but complete faith that the four of you will be on the top of the podium representing the U.S.ofA. in less than an hour. 

The Men’s 4x100 Medley relay is the one relay that the US has NEVER lost at the Olympics. Every single time the USA sends a team to the games, they have won that race. And the four of you are no exception. 

Matt starts you off with the back. Then it’s Brendan with the breast. Followed by you with the fly, and finally Nathan with the free. As soon as Nathan dives into the water you climb out of the pool, heading back over to join Matt and Brendan to wait for Nathan, your eyes are glued to Nathan’s body as it cuts through the water like a missile. The three of you cheer and scream, and stomp your feet. And then he’s done it, you’ve won. Your last Olympic Swim ever and it’s over. Team USA finishes just 1/100 of a second off the Olympic record, pretty damn good for a textile swim. It’s your last swim ever, and it’s Brendan’s last swim ever, and the four of you huddle together, arms around each other in celebration. Some part of you thinks you should feel sad. You’ll never have this moment again. Instead you relax into it, and the excitement and happiness feels like the first time all over again. The crowd screams so loud you can barely hear yourself think. You thank your teammates. And they thank you, and then the chaos starts up again. 

There’s the post-race interview, while you’re all still dripping and fighting for your breath. Later you won’t remember what you say to Andrea Kramer. Just that you talked to her, and you hope you didn’t sound like an ass. Then it’s to the warm down pool to catch your breath and stretch your muscles. You’re about to dive in when you decide to forego it, conditioning is no longer a concern. You’re retired now. So you wave off the others, and head for the locker room instead. You take a long shower, rinsing away the chlorine, and letting the warm water help ease the lactic acid built up in your system. You take your time dressing, nodding to the guys when they get back. And soon you’re all in your podium gear preparing to walk back out. 

The medal ceremony is like every other medal ceremony you’ve had in London. Not much changes from one to the next, except that sometimes you’re on the top podium, and twice you aren’t. But you’re eager too. You’re excited. You put one leg up on the top step, unable to contain yourself completely. The four of you are all smiles, joking and laughing, gripping each other’s hands and enjoying every second of this. And when the that last medal is placed around your neck all you can feel is success. Completion. You’d done what you set out to do. And you’re happy. 

But when the Anthem starts to play, that’s when it all hits you. Last time ever. 

Your face is solemn, your tongue licking at suddenly dry lips, and you know your eyes are glossing over with tears. You listen to the song, and you take deep calming breaths and you smile. 

You don’t know about the trophy in advance. You didn’t know FINA had planned it. You weren’t expecting anything like that, not at all. And you choke up all over again when it’s presented to you. 22 Olympic Medals. 2 Bronze, 2 Silver, and 18 Gold. Plus a Silver plated trophy proclaiming you the most decorated Olympian ever. That’s a pretty good haul. 

The hours that follow are a frantic blur of press, and congratulations. Of interviews that blend together in your memory, and stark moments that will be cemented forever as the touchstones of the experience. Hugging Bob with the award in one hand, your medal around your neck. Seeing your Mom and sisters for the first time. Picking up Taylor and letting her feel the weight of the gold around your neck. Looking up and seeing your teammates, old and new, past and present, but no longer future, cheering and applauding and screaming congratulations. Walking out of the pool, your trophy dangling from one hand and feeling in that moment that there was no turning back now. That it was officially official. You are retired now. 

You’re kept in the press zone for ages. Everyone wants to interview you. NBC wants an exclusive. There are a million pics taken of you, and by the time the entire worlds press has snapped their fill you’re ready to just get some sleep. It’s Bob who says something. Bob and Peter, who finally herd you away and out of the media center. It’s late and you are exhausted. 

Tomorrow there will be time to celebrate with the guys, to toast to the teams collective success and the end of the indoor swimming events. You have seven blessed days until the press tour starts, longer if you have your way. Plenty of time to relax and celebrate. But for now you need sleep. 

The Athlete Village has reached that strange mid-Olympics balancing act. The time where a good number of athletes are done competing, and, with the next Olympics four years away, just want to cut loose and party and have a good time. But the other half of the athletes are still in the zone for competition, where plenty of sleep and rest, and no distractions are the rules to follow. So walking through the village is an adventure in duality. Half the dorm windows are dark and quiet, while others are bright, windows open, and music playing, just this side of not too loud. There are people roaming around in groups of two or three. Probably rushing from or too a party. You pull the hood of your sweat shirt up and keep your head down. Not in the mood for interaction. 

When you get back to the dorm you figure everyone will have gone to bed. It’s almost three in the morning and you know Matt and Nathan are probably just as tired as you are. So you’re quiet as you fit your key in the lock, and ease open the door. The common area is mostly dark, but the TV is on, the sound muted. The light from the TV is enough for you to see your way around. You’re halfway across the living room when you spot him. 

Ryan is stretched out on the couch. His eyes are closed, mouth open in sleep. He’s shirtless and the blue light from the TV lighting up his body enough to show he’s wearing just gym shorts. And you freeze. 

It hits you from time to time, usually all of the sudden and without any real warning, that Ryan is insanely hot. You try and not notice, doing your best to ignore it. Because crushing on your biggest competition is stupid, and letting sex ruin a pretty great friendship that’s already stressed by said competition would just be unbearable. 

But here in the middle of the night you let yourself look. 

You’ve been surrounded by nearly naked men and women since you were just a kid. And Olympians are in general some of the fittest most athletically beautiful people in the world. But you can admit here in the privacy of your own mind, at three in the morning, that Ryan is definitely the most beautiful. 

You’re startled out of your internal musings when you hear an amused clearing of the throat. You blink, your eyes flying up to Ryan’s face. He’s smiling at you, one side of his mouth pulling up higher than the other. He smirks, his mouth dropping open in a yawn, and then his back bows up off the couch in a long slow stretch. The arch of his back and the way his hips raise up to readjust his position makes your mouth go dry. You look quickly away. 

“Hey man,” he says. You nod. 

“Hey, you going to bed?” you ask. He nods, cracking his back and then sitting up more on the couch. 

“Yeah, in a minute. You gotta be tired,” he says. 

“I am, yeah,” you say and nod. He bites his lip and smiles. 

“You got a lot of shit done today. And everyone knows being awesome is exhausting,” he teases. You laugh, shaking your head at him. “But then again, no one has ever been as awesome as you are, so you must be extra tired.” You roll your eyes and flop down on the opposite end of the couch. He yanks his feet out of the way and then plops them down on your lap. You stare at his toes, the arch of his feet, the curve of his ankles. The skin just barely starting to regrow his leg hair, and you look up and away again. You must be exhausted if ankles are turning you on. You look back at Ryan’s face, but that doesn’t really help much. 

“Hey, where’s your trophy? I bet that thing weighs a fucking ton!” he says, using one foot to nudge you in the hip. You smack his foot away and he laughs. 

“Peter took it. He doesn’t trust me with it, I don’t think.” It’s true he doesn’t. “I got my medal though,” you reach into your pocket and pull out number 22. He takes it from you, studying it carefully in the low light, running his fingers across the pressed surface. 

“What you did,” he says shaking his head and frowning, “No one is ever going to do better. It’s not possible.” He hands the medal back. 

“You can,” you say. “And now that we’re no longer competing against each other I’ll actually be rooting for you to win next time.” He lets out a small laugh. 

“Nah, man. I’m sitting at 11 over three games. You have 22 over those same three games. It ain’t gonna happen,” he says, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. 

“You can’t think that way, Ry,” you say. “You’re amazing. And I promise not to mess up any more gold medals for you from now on,” you tease. “Besides I got 22 over four games. Not three,” pointing this little fact out seems terribly important just then. His head rolls on his neck to face you, and he gives you such a look of disgust that you have to laugh. 

“Dude, nobody counts Sydney. Let it go!” he says it slowly, like you’re an idiot. 

“I count Sydney. The rest of the world should too!” you reply, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Don’t pout. You’re already a legend. Do you have to keep reminding everyone you were a fucking prodigy too?” he asks. You’re suddenly glad it’s so dark, hopefully he can’t see the blush staining your cheeks. “For serious though, I’m proud of you, Mike. You did good.” You look at him then, and you want to kiss him, but you don’t. Because he’s Ryan. He’s fucking Ryan Lochte, and you don’t kiss Ryan. 

“Thanks,” you say instead. 

“But I will tell you this: I’m damn glad you’re retiring. You’re totally cramping my style, man.” That makes you laugh again. Perhaps a bit too loudly. There’s a thump from the room Nathan and Matt stay in and the door cracks open. 

“Guys, Come on! It’s four in the morning. I got press to do in like 2 hours. Keep it down!” Matt says, voice harsh and accusing. And you shrink back into the corner of the couch. Anyone who calls Matt the ‘Gentle Giant,’ have clearly never woken him up in the middle of the night. 

“Grevers. Go back to sleep man. We’ll be quiet,” Ryan says. Matt blinks at him, the frown melting off his face. 

“Ok. Sorry. Just… I’m tired man…” Matt says. 

“It’s ok. Dude, just go back to bed,” you say and he nods, disappearing back into the bedroom and shutting the door. You turn back to Ryan. “I guess we’re being too loud,” you whisper, and he sits up, dropping his long legs to the floor. He leans closer. 

“You know why else I’m happy you’re retired?” he asks so quietly you scoot closer to him. 

“No. Why?” you ask. 

“Because it means I can do this,” and then he’s kissing you. You gasp, your mouth dropping open in surprise. And you don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to respond. You’ve wanted this for so long, but you haven’t let yourself imagine it. You haven’t let yourself think about it. So it takes you a minute to respond. His lips still against yours, and he starts to pull away. That’s what startles you into reacting. You reach for him, one hand coming up to tug him back in, fingers threading through the short hair on the back of his head. You open your mouth, tilting your head for a better angle. He smiles against your mouth, the sides of his lips tipping up and you pull your mouth away to breathe. He grins at you, wide. “Well that’s one way to keep you quiet,” he whispers. You blink, looking away. 

“Where did that come from?” you ask, eyes focusing on the still flickering television screen. He adjusts his position beside you, and your head flies back in his direction, not wanting him to move away. 

“Come on, Mikey. I know people think I'm an idiot, but you of all people should know I’m really not. I’ve wanted you for years. And I was… willing to ignore it. I know how you get. How intense you are about boundaries, and putting all the shit going on in your life in little boxes. There’s the swimming box, and the business box, and the family box. You don’t like things straddling your lines. I get that. I couldn’t be competition and… more. So I waited.” Your forehead creases as you listen to him. Shock and hope and want and fear warring inside of you. You know these things about yourself. You’re fairly self-aware about how your brain works. You’ve kind of had to be. But no one else has ever spelled out the things rattling around in your brain so clearly before. 

Later you’ll blame your response on how attractive he is just then, how tired you are, and how much you’ve been denying yourself this for quite literally years. 

Your hand in the center of his chest catches him by surprise. You push him back and back again until he’s sprawled out across the far end of the couch, with you sitting across his hips. He smiles at you in surprise. 

“If you’re not in the swimming box anymore. What box are you in?” you ask, pressing him back into the seat, all your weight pressing down on him. His hands find your hips, tugging you closer before sliding around your sides to slip under your t-shirt. 

“Well I’m hoping we can make a new box. Like a really hot boyfriend box?” Ryan asks. 

“I think that is definitely doable,” you say in response, and he smiles at you. 

“Good. I’ve been really patient, and I’m kind of tired of waiting. Soooo wanna make out?” Ryan asks. You let out a shocked bark of laughter and his hand slaps down on your face so fast your lips sting at the impact. His eyes fly to Nathan and Matt’s door, and yours follow, neither of you daring to breathe. When nothing happens he peels his hand away and screws his face up with relief. You dart forward, pressing your lips to his again, and licking inside when he opens to your kiss. Of course that’s when the door behind you flings open. The two of you spring apart, and turn to face it. 

Nathan blinks at you, his jaw dropped in shock. 

“Jesus. Fuck me…” he whispers. He folds his arms across his chest and leans in the open doorway, gaze appraising. “Well. Well. Well. What have we here?” he asks. You turn back around and let yourself go loose limbed against Ryan, burying your face in his shoulder. “Yo, Matt. Come see this. I think you won the bet,” Nathan calls over his shoulder. There’s another hard thump from inside the bedroom, and you groan wiggling your hands further under Ryan’s shoulders. 

“Bet?” Ryan asks, wrapping his arms tighter around your waist. He pats you high on the back with one hand. You peek at the door over your shoulder. Matt is there now, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He sees the two of you tangled together and a grin spreads across his face.

“Yes! Nathan my friend you are my proof. I had 1 day after retirement, and it’s after midnight. That counts!” 

“What did you win?” Ryan asks and the amusement in his voice makes you pinch the skin of his back in retaliation. He squirms but doesn’t bother reacting any other way. 

“The betting pool. I think it’s up to like a thousand dollars. I had the first 24 hours locked down!” Matt crows in triumph, and you groan again. 

Ryan pushes you back and you reluctantly move away from him. 

“How detailed was this betting pool?” Ryan asks, climbing to his feet, and stretching again. You try not to be distracted by how low his gym shorts sit on his hips, or all that tan skin currently on display. 

“Pretty detailed. First kiss. First love confession. First to make a move. We’re going to need details,” Nathan says, and he’s smirking in a way that makes you want to smack him. 

“All of that information is none of anyone’s fucking business,” you reply, setting to your feet and rubbing at your tired eyes. “I’m going to bed,” you announce, moving toward your own room door. Ryan’s face falls, his hands clenching at his sides. You grin at him. “Coming?” you ask. Ryan’s slipping past you a second later, hands lingering in interesting places. You grin at the shock playing across Matt and Nathan’s faces. “See you in the morning,” you reply, closing the door behind you, only to hear Matt’s yelled reply even through the sturdy wood. 

“It’s already morning you shits!” You lean back against the door. It’s nearly pitch black in the small room with the lone window’s curtains pulled closed, but you can just make out the shape of Ryan sitting on the end of the bed. 

“Are we really doing this?” you ask, breaking off in a loud yawn. He laughs quietly, flashing white teeth in the darkness. 

“I think for now, we should probably get some sleep. You look tired man,” Ryan replies. He crawls across your bed to curl up against the wall, holding the covers up for you. You slide in beside him, where it’s warm and everything smells like Ryan. And seriously when did you start recognizing how Ryan smells? Since when did it become familiar? And hot? You can’t dwell on it for long, because you’re so tired you start to drift off almost immediately. 

Ok so you’re retired now. And everything’s changing. Which is simultaneously amazing and scary at the same time. And dating Ryan? That’s unexpected. That’s unplanned. And it won’t be easy. The logistics. The politics of it alone will be difficult. But you like difficult. You thrive on impossible, and improbable, and complicated. 

Up until now your life has been about swimming, but with that over and done with, goal accomplished and retirement official, it’s time to get started doing all the stuff you couldn’t do before. And loving Ryan seems like a pretty amazing place to start. 

New challenge accepted.

**Author's Note:**

> I have alternately hated and loved this story. I’ve also been fighting with it, writing it, erasing and rewriting it since Olympic Swim Trials started. That’s June people. JUNE! Thanks to D, J, A, and K for all the encouragement. You guys are the reason this thing got finished.


End file.
